


Tumbling Down

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Could you be any more pathetic Mycroft, you're not even his type."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumbling Down

**{glasses}**

It starts like this;

one day you look at him standing beside your brother and you don't turn away. He leans into Sherlock's side as they laugh and you study the folds like tissue paper in the corners of his eyes, the hideous green jumper, the way his body still lists a little to the right sometimes, compensating for a gun he doesn't have. You think; _John_ and _oh_ and then you know.

It changes nothing.

 

**{test}**

"Mycroft. I know you have my number." He stands in front of you. His cheeks are faintly pink and you wonder what it would be like to touch them; lay your fingers against his soft skin and breathe him in.

"I have always found face-to-face contact to be a far more enjoyable experience." It's painful to be near him on occasion. Like a butterfly collector you can pin down the exact moment being away from him starts to hurt more.

"So, come to the flat." He needs a hair cut and the blond strands scratch at the collar of his jacket. 

"I am, shall we say, less than welcome there at present." Your fingers itch and you curl them into your palms. One touch; but you wouldn't be able to stop.

"Well, maybe if you stopped kidnapping his flatmate in the middle of a case Sherlock wouldn't mind you so much." Your breath hitches. So many things he says that pierce you in ways you never thought you would feel.

"Perhaps. But as we are here now; John how are you?" He is displeased and you take a deep breath, swallowing down things you will never say like; 'be mine' and 'he doesn't need you like I could'.

"Fine, Mycroft. Sherlock and I are just fine." He takes a seat and your fingers itch.

 

**{water}**

"Have you ever paddled, Mycroft?"

"Excuse me? No, of course not."

"No, of course. Come here."

"Doctor Watson, I think-"

"Don't think, just do."

"Really, I-"

"Doctor's orders, you look hot, uh, too hot in that suit. Come on, roll your trousers up."

"Doc-John, I really must protest, this is a public park."

"Stop looking around, no one is going to see you. Besides, look, everyone's doing it."

"And if everyone jumped off a bridge? I never took you for a sheep John."

"No, but then I did invade Afghanistan so…"

"Quite."

"There, that wasn't so hard was it? Now, unless you want those shiny black shoes ruined, get them off."

"I can't think of a less dignified way to spend a lunch break."

"Well, if you will accost me during the only hour I have free of patients and Sherlock…"

"Indeed, message received."

"Don't be like that, doesn't it feel better?"

"It is…cooler. Don't roll your eyes, John, it's beneath you."

"Just admit I was right."

"You were not wholly incorrect."

"Hmm, guess it _is_ genetic the not wanting to be wrong thing."

"Thank you, John."

"Any time. Well, when I'm not working, I don't need two Holmeses dragging me away from the surgery."

"No, of course not."

 

**{fruit}**

Watching him makes it harder to look away. The curve of his ear, the bow to his lip. You know you're in danger of making him into something flawless and almost pious. But he is untouchable to you.

He stands in your office in an ill-fitting suit and in another world you reach out and run your fingers through his golden hair. Some other place where he says 'Mycroft' and it sounds like he's been saying it forever.

In another universe you have been together for years and he is there when you return from work, legs curled up in your favourite armchair, tea at his elbow. You sink down onto the arm and fit into the curve of his body. You read the same books and argue about the merits of News24 and BigBrother and then you go to bed.

You lie together, fingers tangled and you count the minutes down in your head, _thirty, eighteen, nine_ …you fall asleep when you know he has, holding him close.

In this world he looks at the clock on your wall and rocks on his feet so you hand him the file and let him leave. You wrap your fingers around the side of his mug; the tea still so hot it burns you.

 

**{fairy}**

"Could you be any more pathetic Mycroft, you're not even his type." 

Sherlock calls you when he knows you'll be alone with no reason to hide; the middle of the night and you blink away the wisps of better dreams.

"Sherlock, please." 

A pause and then he hangs up. You turn over, face pressing deep into your pillow and you pretend he isn't right.

 

**{microwave}**

Round and round. The world spins and someday you're going to fall off. 

You work too hard and go home alone. One day you reach for your glass and realise it's Christmas day.

Round and round. Maybe today.

 

**{veil}**

"Love?" He asks, it's all a game you don't know how you started playing.

"No." Anything else is too dangerous.

"What, no one?" He's breaking the rules, stepping outside of the pastime you let him drag you into. The ring on your finger feels heavy.

"There was, someone." He wraps his fingers around your wrist and squeezes. _You_ , you think, _there was someone and then there is you_.

"Blue." He says.

"Dreams." You say, and don't explain. Sherlock comes home eventually.

 

**{shirt}**

His sleeves are ironed, his trousers pressed. He has a blue shirt on that you don't think you have ever seen before; new and exquisite. He whistles as he passes you, his fingers loose and dragging, catching against your side.

"Have a good evening Doctor Watson."

"I will." His smile feels like a punch to the stomach. You meet your brother's eyes over the top of his head. _Eyes,_ you think, _sometimes we have the same eyes._

 

**{wall}**

You have five files with his name in bold print on the front. You haven't touched them. 

On the screen in your office, he kisses Mary on the cheek and they both laugh. It has been six months and they haven't changed. 

"She's a keeper." he says to you when you pick him up a week later. "So if there is anything you can do to get Sherlock out of the way this weekend, please?"

You give your brother a new case, one that John's clearance doesn't reach.

"I hate you." Sherlock says; he's been gone for three days.

"Yes." You say. John kisses his fiancée and the crowd cheers. You pour another drink.

He looks happier than you have ever seen him. You want to run your tongue over the white teeth of his Cheshire smile. You hate you too sometimes.

 

**{ship}**

It ends like this; 

the last things you see are his eyes, affection blinking out at you with each flutter of his lashes, so close the air brushes your cheeks. Your alarm beeps insistent, he says; 'I love you' and you wake up.

"Enough." You say, scraping a knife over your toast later, butter melting soft and yellow. "That's enough."

You think; _John_ and then you stop.


End file.
